


Sylvie's Xmas Gift

by alyxpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2792507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is one of those things that happens when you spend so much time discussing the wonders of the (BBC) Holmes boys. We all have our favorites and we all have our fantasies....and this is another one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sylvie's Xmas Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lobstergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/gifts).



> Lobstergirl, I doo'ed it! ;)

Voices weave in and out of one another, slowly building a pattern of barely audible background noise that bounces off the walls of the meeting room. Sylvie Ruhm is doing her level best to pay attention. It isn’t helping that the blowhard accountant standing at the podium is droning on and on, his every word seeming to raise the temperature in the room by at least ten degrees. She tilts her head, so bored now that even the sweat beading on the corpulent man’s forehead is at least somewhat of a distraction.

The speaker wipes his brow with the back of his hand. Sylvie winces and he catches her eye. Without a trace of guilt, she looks right back having learned many moons ago how to hold her ground. He passes her and leaves the room; the door opening lets in a smidgeon of cooler breeze. There’s a collective sigh around the room.

Until the next speaker steps up.

Sylvie Finds herself sitting a little straighter in her chair, shaking her head against the boredom of the meeting and hoping her dark hair has fallen back into place correctly. She leans back and crosses her legs at the ankles, suddenly finding her pen in her fingers at the ready. Doesn’t matter though, because he’s just opened his mouth.

The speaker’s accent is velvety smooth. He gestures minimally with long, graceful fingers. She watches closely, the words flowing from his well-shaped lips washing over her with a warm she hasn’t ever felt before. Usually she’s able to ignore most of the posh types, but there’s something about this man with his neatly-styled, thinning ginger hair and rather large nose (she has to admit to herself) that is like North to her internal compass.

Good lord, he’s nice to look at. She highly approves of his carefully-tailored three-piece suit, though she can’t quite make out the details of his waistcoat due to his jacket being buttoned up over it. A slight flash now and again as he lightly punctuates his sentences with his hands lets her know that there’s a very nice pair of cufflinks under there, and she’s one hundred percent certain they aren’t costume jewelry.

After a while, a short silence ensues and someone behind her asks some banal question that she puts out of her mind as soon as it passes her colleague’s lips. The smooth-tongued speaker steps away from the podium, his clear blue eyes sweeping the room. They alight on Sylvie for a few seconds, just enough to make her heart pound in her chest—and then he’s gone, striding from the meeting room as if he owns the place. She only realizes that her gaze has followed his every step after he tugs a mobile phone from the pocket of his trousers and looks up to meet her eyes one last time before he closes the door with a polite click.

The meeting drags on, the temperature in the room rises and Sylvie all but bolts for the door when it is all over, thinking of nothing more than a shower and maybe a dip in the hotel pool before checking up on her notes for tomorrow. The memory of the speaker that so grabbed her attention slips from her mind save for the smoky echo of his voice that remains like the slight aftertaste of a very smooth, very expensive whiskey.

*

Sylvie does take a quick shower and changes into her swimsuit, a dark, modest affair that she doesn’t particularly love. She gives herself a once-over in the small mirror in the loo and decides it’s good enough. Besides, she’s not here trying to pick up a date, simply to do her job and take a little free time where she can get it in between these boring meetings. Sylvie promises herself to take another look at her notes from today’s meetings, because she does know how to pick out important things in between all the posturing and double-speak.

Sighing, she drops her towel onto one of the deck chairs that surround the pool then slips off her flip-flops before taking a moment to enjoy the very rare sight of an almost completely empty pool. There’s a figure down at the far end in a chair that she can only make out as the back of someone’s head because they have a large umbrella pulled down low.

 _Probably reading and enjoying the sunshine_ , she thinks as she wades into the shallow end where she rolls her shoulders and stands up on her tiptoes for a short dive to the bottom. She breaks the surface a few feet away and rolls into a smooth breast stroke.

Three laps later and the figure at the far end of the pool moves.

She almost has cardiac failure right there because when the person moves closer to where she is treading water, the sunlight gleams copper off ginger and a pair of blue eyes meet hers. Recognizing the only speaker this afternoon who sounded like he knew what he was talking about, she blushes from the tips of her ears to her shoulders; no doubt that he can see it all in the clear water. He doesn’t exactly smile as he walks past, merely raises an eyebrow and one side of his mouth, but the implication that he saw makes her feel like diving to the bottom of the deep end of the pool and staying there the rest of the evening.

“Oh my god,” Sylvie whispers to the pool. She grabs the side and stops kicking, allowing the water to lap at her skin for a few moments to gain control of herself. Finally, when she feels as if she can walk, she climbs out of the water, retrieves her towel and almost runs back to her room like an embarrassed teenager.

*

Sylvie flops down on the bed covering her eyes with her arm. This is stupid, she thinks as she plants both feet on the floor and sits up. Why get so worked up over such a beautiful man that she’s probably never going to see again? With that thought, she yanks off her swimsuit and launches it in the direction of the bathroom, not caring to see where it lands. She grabs her favorite dressing gown from her suitcase and tugs it on then ties the sash tightly then takes a look at the clock as she sits down in the ugliest mauve armchair known to humankind.

Tapping her fingers on the arm of it, she debates on what to do with the rest of her evening. There’s supposed to be a ‘meet and greet’ of sorts down in the hotel restaurant tonight and she finds herself torn between joining the get together or perhaps staying up here alone. Granted, both have positive merits, though one greatly outweighs the other…until she gives it just a little more thought.

Truly, staying up in the room is almost a winner, though since there’s a chance she might get another look at Mr. Svelte Voice, it might actually be worth the effort to mingle among her colleagues—the names of none of which she’s bothered to learn. She blocks out former memories of meeting such wonderful men just to be let down when their equally gorgeous boyfriends, and in one instance, _husband_ , show up.

Shaking her head against such morose thoughts, Sylvie sighs and digs around for her notes. She settles in to read for an hour or so before getting dressed for the evening. Of course, all the best laid plans of mice and men often never come to fruition, especially when one cannot get that voice and _those_ eyes out of one’s head. She closes her eyes and leans her head back against the armchair, desperately willing the thoughts to disappear. After a few moments, there’s a bit of a lull in them, possibly only due to the fact of the possibility of seeing him again and she returns to her notes.

*

Sylvie walks calmly from the lift onto the first floor of the hotel, her new heels clicking on the uber-shiny tile. The restaurant and bar are only a few steps from the elevators and she fully expects to walk into a crowd. She is fairly surprised, however, to find that only a couple of the tables in the dining area are taken, even with a live jazz band playing on the stage. The lights have been turned down low, the candles on the tables offering a flattering glow to the faces present. She smiles lightly at a young couple sitting squashed together in a corner booth, takes in the band and decides the bar is probably the right place to be.

Taking a seat on one of the high stools carefully so as to avoid her dress wrinkling when she sits, Sylvie starts to order when movement at the other end of the bar catches her eye.

 _It’s him_.

Fighting the urge to bolt, her ears hear what her mouth orders but her brain dismisses the information as unimportant _because he is walking this way_. Her heart beats a rhythm to the fresh, lively tune the band has just begun and suddenly she forgets how to use language---which is quite a feat because she speaks two fluently.

“May I have this dance?” The man asks, tilting his head as if he would wait forever on her answer.

Sylvie decides to take the time to size him up. He’s about six foot one or two, which makes him the perfect height for a slow dance in her heels. Her eyes move over his frame-lean with the build of a runner, surely those broad shoulders must be muscular beneath the button down. He’s certainly going for a more relaxed demeanor than he possessed earlier, as he’s no longer wearing his jacket, but the shirt and waistcoat are still buttoned up properly. To top it all off, he’s still patiently waiting, not tapping his fingers— _oh god, those hands_ —nor his feet.

“I, uh, don’t dance…” she finally manages to blurt out. The heat spreading over her face lets her know she’s blushing furiously.

The man chuckles, a deep, sonorous sound that begins in the back of his throat.

Sylvie almost swoons.

“Well, then, Ms. Ruhm, I’d be obliged to instruct you,” he offers, holding out a hand.

Somewhere behind her, the bartender puts down her glass, though she cannot break out of his icy hot gaze long enough to consider grabbing some money from the little clutch in her other hand because all of her focus is on his large, warm palm and fingers covering her own. Sylvie swallows against her dry throat and nods simply. It never occurs to her to ask him how he knows her name, because, frankly, it’s just not that damned important at the moment.

The band slows their tempo a bit and the man sweeps her out onto the small dance floor. She is aware that there are other people dancing, too, but everything is beginning to feel a bit surreal. He moves as if weightless, holding her steady in his arms and leading them through dance after dance as if she is no more than a feather. As they move, he speaks lowly into her ear, little observations about the people around them and she smiles.

Eventually, they wind up back at the bar, side by side and she feels as if she can speak to him now.

“Mister…uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” Never mind it’s because she doesn’t know _anyone’s_ name from the meetings today.

The mysterious stranger smiles this time as he turns to face her, casually threading his fingers through the back of his neatly-trimmed hair. _Ginger_ , she remembers, though it seems much darker in here tonight.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he intones, offering her his hand. Sylvie smiles back and shakes it. They drink in companionable silence for a few moments.

“Ms. Ruhm, this is not normally my style, but would care to meet me in my room for a nightcap? I’ve a call to make, though it shouldn’t take me long.”

Sylvie forgets to breathe for a few seconds, taking in the real meaning of his words. “Yes,” she says without stammering.

Another beatific smile and a small card is pressed into her hand. “Twenty minutes?” he asks.

“Yes,” she begins to say, but he takes the words out of her mouth by leaning down and placing a petal soft kiss on her cheek. Sylvie fights the urge to giggle and possibly do cartwheels, though that would be a terrible idea in a dress. Mycroft leaves the bar, Sylvie unashamedly watching him go.

*

Twenty-one minutes later, Sylvie stands outside of room 442, chastising herself for her silly behavior. He’s a complete stranger! What if he’s some sort of murderer?

“This isn’t something I _ever_ do,” she says to the empty hallway.

Right when her nerve is almost gone, the room door opens and Mycroft steps into the hallway. Upon seeing his unbuttoned waistcoat and rolled up sleeves showcasing firm, strongly muscled forearms, Sylvie has to remind her brain and heart and lungs that they are all supposed to work in tandem, not all in a different rhythm from each other.

“Good evening, Ms. Ruhm,” Mycroft purrs.

 _Oh my god, I don’t even care if I die, this is too good to pass up,_ Sylvie thinks. Out loud, though, she offers, “Sylvie.”

Mycroft actually bows slightly at the waist and gently takes her hand. “As you wish,” he grins, stepping back and opening the door wide.

With a nervous smile, Sylvie steps over the threshold to be swept into his arms. He places a gentle kiss on her mouth that she soon returns with interest. He chuckles again, the sound vibrating through the layers of her clothing. He reaches around her and closes the door.


End file.
